


Anamnesis

by idontreadheartbeats



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ba Sing Se, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Soul Bond, Zutara Holiday Exchange 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28353705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontreadheartbeats/pseuds/idontreadheartbeats
Summary: anəmˈnēsis, from the Ancient Greek ἀνάμνησιςnoun1. the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence2. the medical history of a patient3.In Platonic philosophythe relearning of knowledge from a soul's previous incarnationWhen Zuko falls gravely ill with spiritual fever, Iroh goes to the one person who can help.
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 102
Collections: Zutara Holiday Exchange 2020





	1. Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ajstyling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajstyling/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! I already had this plot bunny in the back of my mind that seemed to fit your prompt and... well. It kind of ballooned from there.
> 
> Hope this isn't _too_ angsty for you. Turns out, I'm physically incapable of writing without it 😬

_The foundation of healing is the flow and transfer of energy. Like water, energy collects in seven pools that go up the vertical axis of the body. These pools are called chakras, and each chakra has a purpose._

_Emotional blockages, such as those resulting from physical or psychological trauma, may impede the flow of energy through the chakras. To be an effective healer, you must learn to clear your own blockages, to reopen those energetic pathways._ _But be warned: opening the chakras is an intense experience. And once you begin this process, you cannot stop until all seven are open._

_We will begin first with the earth chakra, located at the base of the spine. It deals with survival and is blocked by fear._

* * *

“I see you’ve recovered well.” The words tumble out of her mouth before she has any sense to stop them. But what else is she supposed to say to someone who survived a bolt of lightning?

Sweat beads on the nape of her neck and runs down the back of her ill-fitted green dress. The Dragon of the West stands next to her in the market stalls of Ba Sing Se, having just exchanged pleasantries as if he hadn’t followed his nephew in zealous pursuit of them across the world. But as Fire Nation generals go, he’s surprisingly affable, and Katara is nothing if not polite.

“And your nephew, is he…” _As arrogant as ever_? _Any less of an obsessive hogmonkey_? _As terrible company as he seems_?

“He is well. Thank you for asking.” His kind eyes disarm her.

An unpleasant truth bubbles up in her throat, but she swallows it down. Her hands continue their examination of the merchant’s daily selection of lychee nuts, her eyes suddenly very interested in the price per pound.

“I must apologize for my nephew’s rudeness when last we met.” She nearly drops the reddish-brown fruit in surprise. He reaches into the pocket of his robes, searching. “Here,” he says and hands her a slip of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Consider it an invitation to share some delicious lychee tea.” The conspiratorial wink he flashes unsettles her. He pays the merchant and half-bows in farewell, his basket weighed down by his purchases. “Until next time, Master Katara.”

Her eyes glance over the— _Ask for Mushi to redeem for half-off your next order at the Pao Family Tea House_ —coupon. She flips it over to find the address and huffs in consternation. It’s in the lower ring of the sprawling city.

“I don’t care what Toph has to say. I’ll make it myself, old man.”

On her way back to the upper ring, she pawns it off on a grateful beggar. At least someone’s happy with the development.

The next market day, she goes no further than the middle ring.

* * *

“You did the right thing, my nephew. Letting the Avatar’s bison go free.”

His uncle’s words wash over him, drowned out by the pulse in his ears. He sways on his feet and leans against the side table as he enters their apartment. The _click_ of the lock is the only indication his uncle is still behind him.

What was he thinking? What if someone saw him without the mask? What would his father do to him this time? Such treason could only have one outcome.

“I don’t”—he struggles to get the words out past the fire licking at his skin and thanks Agni for his scar’s deadened nerves—“feel so good.” At once, the room spins and sweeps him away with the tide, waves breaching with a mighty _crash_.

“Zuko!”

He surrenders and sinks, down, down, down into the depths of unconsciousness.

* * *

He’s not sure how long he drifts between fever dreams and half-waking. For hours or days, he surfaces briefly to the sound of his uncle’s worried fussing. He stirs long enough to register the pouring of water down his throat. His body’s own instincts ensure he doesn’t drown.

Then, a feminine voice joins his uncle’s. His mother? Gentle waters cool his skin and bathe him in blue light. He wonders if he might actually drown this time. He slips under once again as a life flashes before his eyes.

Not all of it, his.

* * *

_He surfaces again surrounded by water._

_It’s all frozen, with a chill that steals the air from his lungs. If the structure were larger, it could be the architecture of the Northern Water Tribe. Almost._

_“Mom, I’m scared!” He whips around at the voice of a little girl. She couldn’t be much older than eight, standing there in the ice-carved doorway in a thick coat, and her eyes..._

_He knows those eyes, that heartbreaking shade of blue. She can’t see him, though. Her eyes look right past him, through him, to the armored man behind him._

_It’s one of his grandfather’s commanders. He towers over a woman with the same blue eyes, same nut-brown skin. Light catches on something around her neck._

_“Go find your dad, sweetie. I’ll handle this.” The kind yet determined set of her face tugs at the back of his mind._

_Tugs him right out of the snow-packed structure, and he’s running, lungs aflame and choked on ash. The dense snow claws at his small legs, his boots, his mittened hands as he scrambles up the snowbank. Down below is chaos. Armored firebenders clash with men armed with spears, clubs, axes. And among them—_

_“Dad! Dad, please! I think Mom’s in trouble! There’s a man in our house!” Even as he forms the words, the voice in his ears is not his own. The tribesman swivels, panic flaring in his eyes._

_“Kya,” he breathes and vaults over the snow._

_A flurry of beaded braids and flying feet rush past his small frame to the ice-house. The cold is already soaking through his mittens, his gloves. He rips them off as he struggles to keep up. But each stride feels impossibly heavier with the weight of his thoughts. My fault. Too slow. Too late. Always too late._

_The sealskin curtain across the door flails in death throws a second time where the tribesman’s ripped it open._

_A plaintive cry emanates from inside. “Nuliara!”_

_To his ear, it is at once foreign and agonizingly clear. It brings him up short, the hand with his gloves braced on the icy doorway as his knees buckle, and he retches._

_Burnt flesh. As long as he lives, he’ll never forget that scent._

_Instantly, the man adjusts his bulky frame to block the view of the interior. “Paniik?” The baritone address is soft, but how did he know it was directed at himself?_

_“Qaigit.” The command isn’t a suggestion; the man picks him up like he weighs nothing and carries him outside. One large hand forcibly buries his nose in a tanned hide shoulder. Beneath that, the smell of ash and sweat mingle to make his eyes water._

_“Dad?”_

_“Not now, Sokka.”_

_“But what ab—”_

_“Not. Now.”_

_The authoritative tone turns paternal once more as he’s set on the ground, already stumbling back towards the house._

_“Katara.” A large hand on his bare wrist keeps him firmly in place, but he struggles anyway._

_“But Mom, she needs my help—” It’s not his voice, not his mother, but it was never a choice, was it? Not after she left him._

_“No.” One hand becomes two._

_“Let me go!” Flail as he might, it’s no use. Firm hands grab his shoulders as the tribesman kneels before him._

_“There’s nothing more you can do for her, kuluuk.” The truth peers up at him from misty eyes, and he drifts like snow outside himself. The man’s voice echoes as if from distant ice floes._

_“Your mother would want you to have this,” he says and takes his hand—when did it get so small?—in his larger one. In it, he places a necklace he already knows, one of blue leather with a carved round stone._

_His hands are shaking, cold fingers fumbling with the necklace as he ties it around his neck. Only the steady weight of the stone between his fingertips anchors him to reality, brings him back to himself._

_Back to the center of the village, where he’s standing in front of all the women and children. He’s barely a child himself, but it doesn’t matter. Their father’s chieftain, and he left the two of them in charge of their people’s safety. He can’t be seen to cower before them._

_Even if the hulking metal ship of his nightmares is now looming on the horizon. Its knife’s edge cuts through the packed snow embankment like seal fat, sends Sokka tumbling down its ruined face. Steam emits from the giant curved snout, and iron jaws snarl open to bear its armored cargo._

_A small force of seven firebenders emerge from the ship’s underbelly, but that’s more than enough to set his lungs aflutter. And at the head, their scarred leader. A hateful grimace peaks out from under his helmet. It’s seared in place to his grotesque appearance. His fingers cling tighter to the stone at the base of his neck, and he swallows in sight of himself._

_He doesn’t wish to remember himself this way, not with her heart beating apace. His past self quickly dispatches with her brother, grabs her grandmother by the hood of her parka in haste. How could he have been so thoughtless? Even if he hadn’t read up on the details, he knew the legacy of the Southern Raiders. What must she have thought? That he’d come to take away her one remaining maternal figure?_

_Past him slams her grandmother into his arms, and he’s already checking her for signs of harm. He ducks with her in terror, eyes screwed shut, as dishonorable Zuko sweeps a wide arc of flame over the gathered members of the tribe._

_The words are on his lips upon his rise._

_"Zuko, I can help.”_

_This time, he’s staring at his own back hunched over his lightning-stricken uncle. It’s not hard to remember the helpless terror he felt then: veins aflame with adrenaline and panic flaring in his chest._

_Her body has none of those. There’s the slight quiver of anxiety in her gut, concern for a patient, perhaps. But behind that is the hardening of her spine into iron, her will to help at any cost. He’s almost reached for his own shoulder when fugitive Zuko explodes._

_“Leave!” Another arc of flame ignites the empty timber buildings behind them._

_She ducks once more but doesn’t budge. Only the pull of hands on his—her—wrists keeps her from lunging forward._

_The blind girl speaks up beside her. “He’ll be okay, Sugar Queen.” Does she mean his uncle or himself?_

_Her brother gruffly drags her back from the wounded man who’d shown them nothing but kindness, despite his past self’s indiscretions._

_“Come on, Katara,” he grunts._

_She struggles once more against her own kin. “No.”_

_“Tui help me, I will strap you to Appa myself.” He reaches for the saddle with one hand._

_She takes the opportunity to rip hers from his grasp. “I took an oath, Sokka.”_

_His shoulders slump with a sigh before he turns to face her. “True as that may be, I’m not sure their kind understand such things.”_

_She plants herself like a tree and stares him down. “That shouldn’t matter.”_

_Her conviction takes root and trails up her throat. He nearly chokes on it for the first time since his banishment._

_A small hand comes to rest on her forearm. “He’ll recover, Sweetness, I promise. The heart doesn’t lie.” It’s only then that she relents, satisfied, and climbs._

_Atop the bison, she’s afforded a better vantage point. She spares his pathetic, cowering self one last glance before taking flight._

_He can’t fathom why._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, lemme know whatcha think 😄
> 
> Inuktitut - English  
> Nuliara - my wife  
> Paniik - daughter (vocative)  
> Qaigit - come (imperative)  
> Kuluuk - little one (vocative)


	2. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katara learns that not all is as it seems. Zuko gets some unexpected visitors to his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: slight, non-graphic depiction of self-harm

_Second is the chakra of our element: water, located in the pelvis. It deals with pleasure and is blocked by guilt. Look within to find the guilt that burdens you. Accept what has already come to pass, but do not let it cloud and poison your energy._

_If you are to heal people in this world, you must first learn to heal yourself. After all, you cannot pour from an empty waterskin. So, let’s take that first step towards healing together and seek forgiveness._

_It will not be easy. It’s never easy to forgive your enemies; harder still, to forgive yourself._

* * *

Three weeks pass and she’s not so lucky. Their funds are deteriorating faster than she’d like, and it’s unclear how much longer they’ll be in the city. She finally relents and heads to the lower ring. Besides, Aang isn’t particular about the cheap produce, and he needs to eat too.

This time, she bumps into him at a cabbage merchant’s stall. Iroh’s voice drifts to her over the din of price-haggling.

“But just last week they were two copper pieces a head.” His voice is tempered and controlled, if a little indignant. Her hand is already fishing around her coin purse.

“Yes, and since then, reckless hooligans cost me half my entire stock.” The angry merchant gestures to the empty baskets behind him. “Less stock, greater demand. The absolute lowest I can go is eight copper pieces until I get another shipment.”

A twinge of guilt shoots through her, but she’s blessedly unrecognizable in her Earth Kingdom getup as she approaches the stall. Iroh’s mouth is already open in retort when her ten coppers _clink_ on the wooden surface.

“Please, sir, allow me to cover for this gentleman.” He grants her a self-satisfied nod and collects them with a quick swipe of his hand. Iroh’s eyes still shine in surprise when he turns to his mysterious benefactor.

“No need to thank me, Mushi.” She cuts in and leads him away to another stall. “After all, you were so gracious to lend me that coupon last time.”

He catches on quickly. “I regret not inviting you for a game of Pai Sho, miss. I apologize if you found my previous offer unsatisfactory.”

Another twinge churns in her gut at his words. “No, that wasn’t it at all, I—” But the lie dies on her lips at the sight of his warm smile. “T-t-the truth is I was afraid. Of what I would find, I guess.” Her eyes find her feet as they walk.

He studies her for a moment out of the corner of his eye. “I understand, Master Katara. You and my nephew did not exactly part on the best of terms when we met time before last.”

The words bubble up on her tongue. “My friends stopped me, you know,” she says as she meets his gaze.

A peculiar look crosses his face. “You mean his fire did not?”

“No. I said I could help. I would’ve frozen him to a tree if I had to.”

At that, a deep laugh rumbles from his belly. “I suppose you would. My friend Pakku tells me you were his best student.”

“You know Master Pakku?”

A shrug. “I suppose you could say all old people know each other in some way or another.”

Her hand finds her mother’s necklace as they pass a display of assorted plants. “It would seem so.”

“For what it’s worth,” he begins, handing two silver pieces to the plant vendor. “I do think my nephew regrets refusing your help.”

“How can you tell?”

He takes a small potted shrub from the merchant and tucks it under his arm. “I can’t. My nephew is a mystery even unto himself. I merely help him to unravel the threads of his psyche.”

He stops at a florist’s stall and points to a shriveled white flower. “Take the moon flower, for instance. Exposed to the harsh rays of the sun, it withers easily and collapses in on itself. But with some guidance from a nurturing hand and a safe space”—his gentle hand scoots the flower back into the shade of the stall—“it blooms into the beautiful flower it was always meant to be.”

Sure enough, the stem of the flower straightens with newfound pride. Creamy white petals open up to her as if for an embrace. He leans in to take in the flower’s delicate aroma, eyes closed in anticipation.

She leans on one hip, arms crossed. “So, your nephew. You think he’s found his shade?”

“No.” She raises a skeptical eyebrow as her companion meets her gaze. “But his metamorphosis is not yet complete. It has already taken him years to adjust to life without his father’s stifling influence.”

“I see.”

They continue their walk in amiable silence. With any luck, he misses the small trickle she diverts from her waterskin to the flowerpot.

* * *

_The ocean stretches out to the horizon. Dawning sunlight splays out across the sky in fingers of pink and yellow and amber. It’s the third day in a row he’s woken far too early on the ship, having tossed and turned all night at her words._

_Her mother’s necklace. That’s what she said when he had her shamefully tied to that tree. Of course, she couldn’t’ve known how her words and eyes would pierce his heart. He’d hotly contested her accusations of thievery, a vain hope that it would obscure the guilt roiling in his gut._

_Below him, the waves crest and lap at the sides of the metal vessel sending salt sprays into the air. He could almost pretend he hadn’t restrained her to avoid unnecessary injury. But the weight of the stone in his pocket drags that lie down with him. After all, if it was of no further use to him, shouldn’t he have burned it along with the scroll? Truth is, it hadn’t even occurred to him in the moment. It’s always hard to think over the memory of his mother’s disappearance._

_His thumb seeks out the familiar grooves of the water tribe symbol. He doesn’t even need to look at the stone’s face anymore. By now, he must’ve stared at it over a hundred times. He’d gladly sear that image into the back of his eye. It would be nothing less than he deserves, after the way her mother died._

_But he never got to apologize, did he? Not after the monk caught sight of it and snatched it from his wrist. He turns the cool stone over between his fingertips._

_“Zuko?”_

_Startled, he turns to find her, hair loose and windswept apart from her beaded loops. Katara? Yes, that was her name._

_She takes in the scene as if she’s just appeared. “Where are we?”_

_“This…” His eyes sweep across the wide, abandoned deck. “This is a memory. A few hours from now, we’ll discover a stowaway on board the ship. He’s being pursued by a bounty hunter with a shirshu and…” He averts his gaze from her and trails off. “Well, you know the rest.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. His eyes drift back to her face, helpless._

_Her eyebrows wrinkle a bit. He tries not to find it cute. “How did I get here?”_

_A shrug. “You tell me. I’m the one still passed out with fever.”_

_Her head gives a slow nod. “Ah.” She pinches her lips together for a moment. They give a slight pop upon release. “Right.” She strides up beside him and leans on her elbows against the ship railing. He does the same._

_Her finger points out to the horizon. “I’m never up early enough to catch the sunrise like this. It’s beautiful.” He can’t help but to agree. She is._

_The beauty in question turns around and stretches her arms out against the railing like a cat. Her gaze is oddly appraising with one eyebrow raised. But then there’s a dangerous glint in her eye that turns mischievous._

_“But I guess you wouldn’t have a problem with that, Mr. I-rise-with-the-sun.”_

_His burning face is in his hand in a blink. “I guess I deserved that,” he groans._

_“Yeah, maybe a little.” He chances a glance to find there’s something else in her eyes besides mischief that he can’t quite place. “But last I checked, I was working on your water chakra, so I guess…” She looks out to sea once more. “Got anything to feel guilty about?”_

_“Plenty.” He sighs. “But we’ll start with this.” He finds the necklace again and holds it out to her. “I’m sorry I didn’t return this when I had the chance. I don’t have much left of my mother either.”_

_Her glassy eyes meet his again, mouth slightly agape. Her eyebrows scrunch up again, and she’s the spitting image of her mother._

_“Thank you,” comes her faint whisper._

_“Of course.” He gestures for her to turn around, necklace still in hand. “Shall I?”_

_A pretty blush graces her cheeks as she nods and turns around. His fingers move to help shift her soft hair over-shoulder, its texture and light rosemary scent strangely vivid for a fever dream._

_Her breathing slows as he drapes it over her collarbone. His heart stutters in his chest, and he tries to keep his hands steady to set the clasp._

_“There, all done.” He shifts to get a better look at her face but stills when their eyes meet over her shoulder. Her eyes find his lips, and his, hers._

_The vision ends before they both do something they’ll regret._

* * *

_One moment he’s above deck about to kiss a girl who has every right to hate him; the next, he’s in his quarters down below. His month-old scar still itches like Agni’s balls, and he’s about to rip the damn bandages off his face. His remaining good eye strains to compensate for the other._

_The late afternoon sun streams in through a short, slatted window and hits a spot just next to the door. Papers and scrolls litter the floor, the desk, his bed. Incense still wafts from the overturned altar on the far wall. The wall sconces above remain lit. Pulsing orange and red light scatters across the floor, across pieces of shattered glass from broken portrait frames. That must be why his hands are bleeding. Shards dig into his knuckles and palms, the back of his hands._

_He still struggles to bring his breathing under control. If the state of his room is any indication, his outburst has already passed, but an undertow of self-loathing ripples at the edge of his consciousness, ready to pull him under at any moment. He clings to his anger to stay afloat. Blood trickles from his palms, and he squeezes harder to get a hold of himself. Its metallic edge does nothing to mask the scent of ash in his nose._

_A steady knock at the door reverberates through the space. He clears his throat, wipes his tearstained cheeks and runny nose on the sleeves of his robes._

_“Not now, Uncle,” he snarls. “I don’t want any calming tea.”_

_“It’s not your uncle. And I don’t have any tea.” The waterbender’s voice is firm but calm, a quiet spot in the storm of his mind._

_He retreats behind his bed and makes himself small. “You shouldn’t be here,” he spits with as much venom as he can muster._

_“But I am, so open up.”_

_“No.”_

_“Zuko—”_

_“I said no!” The sconces flair violently before cloaking the room in darkness._

_A faint hiss emanates from the door where the girl’s no doubt tried to barge in anyway. He considers the merits of melting the lock mechanism when she enters, hands gloved in water._

_To her credit, she doesn’t say anything to him—doesn’t pay him any attention at all, really. She sets about straightening the altar, clearing out the broken glass with delicate bending motions. One by one, she replaces the fallen candles and sticks of incense into their holders. Her hand stills at one of the portraits, still framed without glass. He watches as she carefully picks it up to examine for a moment._

_Her voice is soft, perhaps even timid to breach the stillness that settles over them, but nonetheless assured in the truth of her words. “You have her eyes, you know.”_

_He utters no response, save a flicker of breath from his nose. Her innate boldness wins out as she finds his eyes from where she stands, portrait still in-hand. Her eyes dart away, spooked by whatever she finds there. With the accursed frame replaced in the center of the altar, she turns her attention towards collecting the scattered documents._

_They exist like that for several minutes: her, cleaning up the mess his past self made; and him, sitting, scar side in shadow, hoping she’ll leave once she’s done. Instead, she kneels in the center of the room, stacks of papers around her as she devises a method of organization. The stack on her far left goes untouched. An awkward silence lingers once she’s finished._

_“So, I think I know where we are. I suppose that leaves the question of when. When are we, Zuko?”_

_Silence. His eyes stare, unseeing, at the floor in front of him, chin tucked on elbows crisscrossed over both knees._

_“Well clearly this is after your…” Her voice trails off, uncertain, and she swallows. “… accident. It’s still bandaged, so that’s maybe—what, three, four weeks?”_

_His nod is nearly imperceptible, but it’s enough._

_“Right.” She rifles through some of the papers. “And it looks like this missive from the royal palace was dated to just a month after the summer solstice. Am I right in guessing that was almost two months ago now?”_

_Another nod. Her eyes glide over the page once more, brows furrowed. He can almost hear the gears turning behind those eyes, the slight gasp once she’s figured it out._

_“But Zuko that’s—” She reads it again to be sure. “This is six years before I ever found Aang. And the Avatar hadn’t been seen in—”_

_Her gaze bores holes through his hunched form, head bowed, and eyes closed. She returns the missive to its appropriate pile and flounders for a response when she freezes._

_“Zuko, you’re bleeding.” Sure enough, red rivulets trail down his hands, his arms. When did he flex them again?_

_There’s that same something in her eyes as she crouches low and inches towards him, the way his mother would approach a wounded turtleduck in the palace gardens. She kneels before him and, as tentatively as she had his mother’s portrait, reaches out to him. Her touch is feather-light as it trails down his arm and examines the back of his hands._

_“Come here,” she says and, just as gently, brings his hands into her lap._

_With the same delicate motions as before, she rinses out the glass on the back of his hands and deposits the shards in the receptacle by his desk. Her hands turn over his, and she does the same on his palms. The blue glow of her healing illuminates her face from below._

_“Why?” The word slips out from him unbidden._

_“Why what?” Her eyes don’t waver from her ministrations._

_“Why heal this?” His voice croaks from disuse and his past self’s screaming._

_“If I can, then I will,” she tells him as if it were a simple fact—no more remarkable than the regularity of the tides._

_“Yes, but why heal me?” Her eyes find his as she catches his meaning. For a moment, they sparkle in the light of the blue glow before returning to her task._

_“Your uncle asked me to.” There’s a forced evenness behind the edge in her voice._

_“Yes, but…” He drops his original line of questioning and takes up another. “This is just a memory; it’s not—none of this is real. It’s all in the past, and what’s done is done.”_

_The last of his wounds disappear, as if they were never there to begin with, and the blue glow fades to nothing. She pools her water into a bowl shape over her upturned hand and holds it out to him. Her free hand summons a small globule and plops it back into the water-bowl. Ripples flair out from the center like so many tiny waves._

_“Does the water still immediately after the surface tension is broken?” He peers more closely into the bowl as she answers for him. “No. Even minutes afterwards, it still waxes and wanes, restless with motion and the echo of what came before.”_

_He huffs at that. “Still doesn’t change anything. Even when the water calms, you still broke the surface of it.”_

_A shrug. “That’s true, I guess. It’s just that water…” Her hand flexes and creates a small tide in the water-bowl as she searches for the words. “Water has memory. It recalls the moon’s pull at high tide even when we can’t. It’s like the body in that way.”_

_“How so?”_

_“My healing instructor in the north explained it to us once.” Her fingers dance, and at once the water-bowl splits into three. With one hand above and one below, she suspends the three spheres before him._

_“The body’s full of water and energy. And that energy pools at certain points through the vertical axis of the body.” Her fingers weave watery channels connecting each of the three spheres, flowing into and out of one another._

_“It’s why water can heal, because the body’s full of it, and the energy—the chi—flows like water anyway.” With one graceful flourish, she deposits the spheres back into her waterskin._

_“When I heal, I can sometimes pick up on the energy that resulted in the injury. Not always, though. The emotions behind it have to be strong enough to register.”_

_He examines his hands and notes the unmarred flesh, squeezes and flexes to test the fresh tissue._

_A swallow. “So what did mine tell you?” His eyes betray him, then, and search for any trace of disgust on her face._

_“Well,” she begins, taking his hand in hers once more and pointing to the knuckles, “here, you were angry. At your mother’s portrait, though I’m not sure why.” She turns his hand over and traces her fingers over his as if reading his palm. There’s something strangely intimate about the gesture._

_“And these here on your palm, you—” Her voice catches in her throat as she breathes in deeply. “You pushed them in. Because you felt like you deserved it.”_

_He shields the scarred side of his face further. How could she have seen so clearly through him? One more touch from her, and he’d shatter in an instant, surely._

_“I did. I do.”_

_“But why?”_

_“You wouldn’t understand.”_

_“I think I would understand better than you know.” The hard edge of her voice turns to steel._

_A sigh escapes him. She’s not going to take no for an answer this time._

_“My mother…” He swallows the guilt stuck in his throat as best he can. “She left me—left us—at the mercy of my father. And I’m still angry with her for it. But what could she have possibly done to stop him? She was as helpless as any of us.”_

_She points to the far stack of papers she left untouched. “Is that why you have her letters?”_

_He wipes his nose once more. “Yes. I’m not sure who she was writing to, or if she was planning to send them at all. But I was hoping wherever she was, there might be information in there.”_

_“Did you ever find her?”_

_A scoff. “I didn’t.” His hand reaches under the bed and pulls out two masks: one of the Blue Spirit, and the other of a red oni, the latter cracked clean in half. She gasps as she takes them into her hands._

_“These are the only two masks left from my mother. The bounty hunter took this one”—he points to the oni mask—"to track her.”_

_“And the bounty hunter found her?”_

_“Oh yeah, she found her alright. And she was kind enough to send the mask back to me with a note saying that my mother didn’t want to be found.” He wipes angrily at the tears that manage to spill from his eyes._

_“Do you still have the letters? Does your uncle? I could take a look—”_

_He shakes his head, cutting her off. “They’re gone. I burned them. Was just about to, actually.”_

_She bites her lip in thought and glances back at the stack of his mother’s correspondence._

_“Do you know how long we’re supposed to stay here—in the memories?”_

_A shrug. “No idea. It’s my head. I guess however long my subconscious dictates.”_

_A grin crosses her face, a calculating gleam in her eyes._

_“Guess we’d better get started then.” She raises an eyebrow at him question._

_Dumbfounded, he watches as she sifts meticulously through the pile with newfound determination. He almost doesn’t notice the smile that crosses his face._

* * *

_It’s all too soon that a brilliant white light saturates his mind. He’s left blinking in pain and shielding his eyes until it finally fades…_

_Into the opalescent greens of a dark cave. The waterbender’s nowhere to be seen, but her voice carries from somewhere faraway._

_“What happened to you, Zuko?”_

_“I’m right here!” His voice bounces erratically off crystalline structures, his only company an echo. “I’m right here.”_

_A pristine voice startles him out of disappointment. “She can’t hear you.”_

_The white light shines behind him. Rather, the spirit of a girl, her snowy hair piled up in elaborate braids with a delicate headpiece._

_“Who are you?”_

_She looks upon him serenely from above, where a crack in the stone ceiling allows moonlight to pass through. “That is a simple question to a complicated answer.”_

_“Okay. So, what should I call you?”_

_Her gossamer form glides down to the ground as she appraises him. She’s star-silent as she steps toward him with preternatural grace._

_“There are those who call me Yue, as I was called in life. Most prefer my older name of Tui. If you wish, you may refer to me as the moon spirit.”_

_“With all due respect, my lady, what matter would you have with a son of Agni?” If his uncle has taught him anything, it’s to never offend the spirits._

_She ponders as she circles him. “My matter is not with you per se, but your healer.”_

_“Katara?”_

_“Yes.” Her glowing eyes meet his as she stops in front of him. “She has a gift to offer you, should you accept it. It has been blessed by many spirits, myself included.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“A bond, unlike that seen for centuries.”_

_“A bond? You mean to me?” She nods. “No, you can’t do that to her. She doesn’t deserve that.”_

_“Perhaps.” Her penetrative gaze frosts him in place, ethereal and arcane in equal measure. “But the power to choose has always been hers. If you care for her, son of Agni, you will not take it from her.”_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_“You may not until the time comes.” Her eyes drift off in thought for a moment before snapping back to his face. “But may I offer you some advice? From one former mortal to a current one?”_

_He offers a tentative nod, unwilling to refuse her._

_“The spirits do not offer such blessings every millennium, Zuko, son of Ozai, son of Azulon. I’d suggest that you not waste it.”_

_She evanesces in a breath before he can scream, “Wait.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't wait to get this chapter out here for you guys. I've been making good progress with drafting (about halfway done!).
> 
> This whole series has been so incredibly cathartic to write. Hope you like it 💕


	3. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katara uncovers a new side to her patient and finds the strength to heal him.

_Next up is the chakra of our elemental opposite: fire, located in the stomach. This chakra deals with willpower and is blocked by shame—and, by extension, pride. For pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source. Never let it prevent you from confronting the biggest disappointments in yourself._

_With time, you will find that humility is the only true antidote to shame. With that in mind, let us now endeavor to humble ourselves to confront the shame within us all._

* * *

_Whack. Chop. Slice. Slice. Whack. Chop. Slice. Slice. Whack. Chop. Sli—_

The steady rhythm of vegetable preparation lulls her mind into a pleasant daze. Practiced fingers ensure she doesn’t cut herself. Would she even feel it if she did? Probably not in this state.

A sigh escapes the waterbender as she looks over the plate of chopped bok choy, the large bowl of red tomato wedges. There’s probably too much for the soup, but she can’t bring herself to care. It’s been some time since she’s cooked for just herself. Joo Dee relented on the servants at her insistence, and it’s nice to do something with her own hands. Anything to take her mind off a broken boy beneath Lake Laogai.

Frantic knocking draws her attention from the pot of water she’s put on to boil for supper. When she opens the front door of their Earth Kingdom accommodations, he’s leaning against the doorframe.

“Master Iroh?”

He holds up one finger out of politeness to catch his breath and braces himself on his slightly bent knees.

“Master Katara,” he wheezes, before straightening himself once more. “Please forgive my sudden intrusion, but the matter was of utmost urgency.”

“What’s wrong?” Her hands are still coated in tomato juices, and even her half-apron won’t wipe them clean. She gives up to gesture inside. “Would you like to come in and have a seat?” Never has she seen the unflappable general so distressed.

His hand waves away her concerns. “No, no, no, that will not be necessary. It’s my nephew.”

“What about him?” And why did he think she should care?

“He’s sick with fever. I was hoping that you could help him.”

_But not Jet?_ The bitter, intrusive thought clears with a shake of her head. “He’s a fit young man. I’m sure he’ll be over it by the morn—”

“It’s not dropped in two days and is still gradually rising.”

“Surely, there’s an herbalist you can—”

“I’m afraid it’s spiritual in nature.”

“General, I really don’t have any experience with—”

“Please.” The cracked pitch of his voice sends her heart plummeting to the ground. “He’s the only son I have left.”

She's throwing off her apron before the words are out of his mouth. One hand reaches for her waterskin, the other fumbling with her keys as she shuts the door.

“Okay. Take me to him.”

The pot boils to nothing and scorches, long forgotten.

* * *

The apartment above The Jasmine Dragon teashop is humble for the upper ring but comfortable. Iroh leads her into the back room that must be Zuko’s. It’s as quiet as her mother’s cairn, save for his weak coughs.

She kneels where he lies on the tatami mat in the center of the floor, and for a second, there’s tanned skin beneath that mop of black hair. A few rapid blinks erase the image from her mind.

The fire prince is under at least two layers of blankets. She peels them back a bit to find his bare chest glazed with sweat. He shivers in response.

“How did this start?” she asks, reaching out for his forehead. He flinches from her cool touch.

“After he freed the Avatar’s bison from the Dai Li.”

Her hand recoils, long braid whipping over her shoulder as she gapes at the old man.

“He _what?”_

“My nephew located the Avatar’s bison. I had no way of knowing what he planned to do, so I followed him, encouraged him to consider what he wanted. Ultimately, he chose to free the poor creature.”

“But…” Memories flash before her eyes. “We were down there and never saw you.”

A shrug. “You must have just missed us.”

“But Jet…” _Died for nothing_.

“Who?”

“It’s nothing just…” Another shake of her head. “Could you bring me some water? Several buckets’ worth.”

“Of course. Would you like some tea, Master Katara?”

“Yes, please.”

He offers her a small bow before closing the screen door behind him.

Nearby, an empty bucket lies carelessly tossed aside, and she leans over to retrieve it. Her waterskin opens with a small _pop_ and dispenses some water onto her hands. She rinses the last remaining tomato juices, bends them and her patient’s sweat into the receptacle.

Like this, he’s no longer the haughty prince with the hateful grimace. His face, relaxed and at peace, is somehow alien by comparison. Her fingers comb the hair out of his eyes to get a good view of his scar. If he were awake, she’d never get this far, this close to him while he’s vulnerable. Instead, he’d snarl like any injured animal.

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Her tone is far less spiteful than she intends. She can’t even do that right: express well-founded disdain toward a sworn enemy. But Jet was her enemy once too, wasn’t he? And made a turn for the better, it seemed. If he’d had more time, what kind of man would he have turned out to be?

Her patient stirs at the sudden address. Heavy lidded eyes open a fraction to reveal the unseeing amber depths beneath.

“Mom?”

Once, she might’ve expected a taunting rasp, not the weak plea of a broken boy. Did he lose his mother too? Yugoda told them that all men eventually ask for their mothers, in her lesson on how to help the dying pass. La preserve her if she failed another like that.

“No, it’s…” _Your enemy. The water tribe peasant._

Did he even know her name? “… a friend.”

His head turns over, appeased, and she shushes him quietly back under.

* * *

She finishes up with his earth chakra an hour later. The fear at his uncle’s near-death unsettled her, an uncomfortable reminder of the loss of her mother. How could she not have seen it before? Where she buried her anger, deep as an ice fissure, he wore his as a mantle—more like a shield than a spear-thrower.

But it shouldn’t have taken that long to open; wouldn’t have, were there not another block tied this stomach. Yet every time she approached, it flitted away like a fish, just out of reach of her vision.

Behind her, the screen door slides open, and the scent of freshly brewed jasmine tea fills the small space.

“How is my nephew faring?”

“Better. I’ve stabilized his temperature. Still a little hot but…” She trades Iroh her two empty cups for another. Its warmth is pleasant in her hands, its steam invigorating. “As I’m sure you’re aware, his chakras are opening. Problem is, there’s too many blockages for them to clear all at once, so I’m just helping the process along.”

“You see now why I sent for you.”

She nods and takes a small sip of her tea. “My healing instructor would be much faster at it, but I will do for him what I can.”

“In that case, I will prepare a space for you to stay the night.”

Her cup _clinks_ on the floor as she sets it down. “No, that will not be necessary.” She points to the rolled-up tatami mat in the corner. “It’ll be easier if I stay here anyway. Closer to the patient, and I can rest between healing sessions.”

He offers her a small bow. “As you wish. There’s some leftover rice and bean curd in the kitchen should you get hungry.”

She nods to him in thanks as he turns to leave.

“Goodnight, Master Katara.”

“Goodnight, General.”

He pauses for a moment in the open doorway. “And thank you. Truly.”

He must’ve put honey in the tea, the way it sticks in her throat. She swallows with some difficulty before turning back to her patient. The latch on the screen door _clicks_ closed behind her. It takes several minutes to find her voice again.

“Your uncle cares a lot about you, you know. But you’re going to have to let me in so I can return you to him.”

In response, her patient fidgets in his sleep, eyebrows drawn together by something in his dreams.

“Though, I’m not sure if you can help that or not.”

She summons the blue glow once her tea is gone.

* * *

_The heavy night air settles around her, thick with the scent of oak and pine needles. Streams of fireflies lead her to a makeshift clinic at the edge of a small Earth Kingdom village._

_A lone figure meditates on the lanterned porch. How is it possible that he seems so sad from such a distance? She steps to get a closer look._

_Until a stick snaps underfoot, and she halts, unwilling to disturb her patient’s contemplation further. Instead, it’s broken by another._

_A kind woman sits beside him, her hair pulled into a neat up-do. She has the look of a healer about her. Their voices don’t carry to where she stands. Even watching such an intimate moment feels intrusive. But if it will help her patient, she’ll linger._

_Long enough to see the woman reach out for his scar. She does not yet know it’s a mistake; only finds out when he grabs her hand as a reflex—firm, but without malice—and guides it away. He distances himself for the rest of the evening._

_Right up until they leave. He only thanks their hosts at his uncle’s insistence. His shoulders tense at the mention of his quarry. Is this what makes him steal the ostrich horse in return for their hospitality?_

_But there’s something else there when his uncle sighs in disappointment. The slight bowing of his shoulders, the dip of his chin. And in his eyes an unmistakable look of disgust. But for what? For whom?_

_For himself, she thinks, and her heart sinks at the notion._

* * *

The leftover rice and bean curd are decidedly room temperature by the time she’s through with his water chakra. She hardly tastes them as she chews, unthinking.

How surprising, to find the contemptuous prince so wracked with guilt. Before, she might have reveled in his turmoil. But then he let her into his memories, to the aftermath of his injury and his missing mother. Her stomach churns, and the food turns to little more than mush in her mouth. Appetite lost, she gathers her dishes to wash.

A turn of the sink tap and she pauses, stilled by gorgeous flowers on the windowsill. Could it be the same tiny shrub she watched the old man buy weeks ago? If so, it’s had plenty of time to sprout several blooms of reddish-pink petals with white streaks. And from it, the most deliciously soft, herbal aroma wafts. Beside it, she finds the canister of jasmine tea along with several others. Perhaps she’ll make another pot.

She bends the dishes clean and searches for spark rocks—hard to find in a house of firebenders. With the kettle on to boil, her hand reaches for a nighttime blend. It’s already late enough as it is. With her bending, she tracks the acceleration of water molecules to the right temperature and pours the pot before the kettle sounds. No need to wake the whole house.

Not that her patient’s stirred for more than a moment in days. He’s just as she left him: in a sound, if fitful, sleep. She sets her cup and the teapot on a nearby side table and reaches for the spare tatami mat to roll out. Iroh was kind enough to leave her an extra blanket and pillow. She nestles in at arm’s length from her silent companion, wrapped in the blanket, and nurses her warm blend of chamomile and lavender tea.

“What happened to you, Zuko?”

She doesn’t know why she whispers to him like this, when left alone with his sleeping form. Perhaps it’s to alleviate her own nervous tension. It’s not every day one’s asked to treat a former antagonist. But that’s exactly what Yugoda warned them about, isn’t it? About forgiveness.

“I’m not sure I can ever forgive you for the nightmares but…” What is she trying to say? What would she say to him if he were awake? “I think…” What would she have said to him before he apologized? She clings to her mother's necklace, mind splintering in shameful directions.

“I think I understand a little better.” As always, he doesn’t answer. “But I still haven’t figured you out.”

Beneath her robes, a small vial glows.

“I’ll try if you let me, though.”

* * *

“I’m completely stuck. I can’t go any further than his solar plexus.”

“I see.” Iroh pours her another cup of tea the next morning. “What seems to be the nature of the blockage?”

“I’m not quite sure. I just know there’s a through-line from here”—she points to his stomach—"to his scar. Whatever it is, it’s connected to that.”

“I was afraid of that. Will it be a problem?”

“It shouldn’t be.” She gloves her hand to coat the left side of his face. “Scars this old don’t usually have a blockage like this. But his? There’s a knotted mass there behind his eye that I can’t get to because it’s connected to his stomach.”

“And scars cannot be healed.”

“Normally, no. But I do have something that might help.”

From her robes, she extracts a delicate crystal vial with a crescent moon stopper. Her deft hands unwind the chain from around her neck and offer it to the old man to examine further.

“Master Pakku gave me this before we left the north. It’s water from the Spirit Oasis there. Its healing properties may be able to help heal his scar, at least enough to unblock his _chi_.”

“And you think that will prove successful?”

“I’m not sure.” She watches as he turns the vial over in his hands to study its contents. “But when I heal, there’s often a dam of energy that must be released to jumpstart the healing process. It should follow then, that healing the physical injury should flood the dam, so to speak.”

“A way of working in reverse, then.”

“Exactly.”

“In that case, you have my permission—”

“Thank you, Master Iroh.”

“—but you may not have his.”

“Of course. But if he lets me in to see the circumstances that resulted in the scar, I will take that as consent.”

A dark look crosses his face. “I can’t imagine that will be very pleasant.”

Her jaw clenches at his words. “I’ll handle it.”

His eyes study her face for a moment before he returns the vial to her. His hand covers hers with a small squeeze.

  
“Then do what you must.”

She swallows and nods as he rises from the floor.

“I will be right outside the door should you need anything.”

“Thank you, General.”

“No.” His head hangs heavy as it sways. “Don’t thank me yet, child.”

She’s silent as the screen door _clicks_ closed. Her eyes drift to the glass vial in her hand, to the scarred face of her patient. With a deep centering breath, she removes the stopper and pours out the spirit water. A wiggle of her fingers spins it in circles above her palm.

A sigh and a prayer. “Tui and La I hope this works.”

His scarred flesh is tough where the healing water pools. She meets resistance and so sinks deeper, down into his _chi_.

Down into memory.

* * *

_Red. All she sees is red._

_Fire lines the perimeter of the arena, thick and sweltering, and casts the entire amphitheater in red, orange, and gilded hues. Beyond are unseen onlookers, thousands of them, obscured in darkness. Firelight bounces off the occasional stray helmet as their eyes bear down on her exposed back._

_She relishes the nearness of her element on her skin slicked with sweat. The heat could almost be comfortable, the way it envelopes her like a thick cocoon of furs. Even the largest crucibles used by her tribesmen for metalworking were never this hot. Small relief that her hair is pulled off her shoulders as much as possible._

_Her knee aches from the hard tile floor, but it’s not yet time. Is that Shyu? The Fire Sage stands before her in all his cardinal regalia. He drapes a red silk stole around her bare shoulders—what? She looks down. Where she expects to see her own breasts are only sculpted pectoral muscles. But somehow, it’s not the changes to her semi-naked body that set her most on edge._

_“Agni’s blessèd light shines upon you, Prince Zuko,” the Sage intones in his solemn voice. Before her, he weaves an intricate pattern of incense—to purify? It’s resinous, sweet, and woody with a touch of lime._

_“And the blood of the dragon flows through you.” He repeats the motions with his other hand bearing a different aroma: stronger, sweeter, like vanilla and spices. With the ritual complete, he steps back to join the rest of his religious brethren at the fire’s far edge._

_She rises at a slow and deliberate pace; sheds the feathery-soft stole as she turns to face her opponent. Her heart, wrapped in silk, flutters to the ground. Her legs collapse of their own accord. Knees and palms slam to the tile floor._

_“Please, father!” His newly pubescent voice resonates from the base of his—her—spine. “I only had the Fire Nation’s best interest at heart. I’m sorry I spoke out of turn!”_

_Blood pounds in her ears as the shadow called Ozai looms nearer. “You will fight for your honor.”_

_“I meant you no disrespect. I am your loyal son!” The way he kowtows before the tyrant pushes her nose into the hard ground and forces tears from her eyes._

_“Rise and fight, Prince Zuko.”_

_He lifts his chin enough to address the specter he calls father. His vision blurs with salt on his lips. His body and voice shake, but he persists anyway. “I won’t fight you.”_

_“You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher.”_

_She can’t move, can’t speak, as the glowing hand creeps toward her cheek._

_All she sees is red as she screams._

* * *

_A gentle hand caresses the left side of her face. She flinches from the contact, still certain her nerves are on fire._

_“Katara? Katara it’s alright. You’re safe now.”_

_Her whole body’s tensed in the fetal position on her side. A hand rubs comforting circles between her shoulder blades. It takes several moments to relax her limbs and stretch them out straight._

_“Zuko?” His scarred face materializes above her, a single eyebrow drawn up in concern. “Where are we?”_

_She blinks rapidly as he helps her sit up. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust—from pulsing red flames to the dim light of the cave. It’s filled with crystals that lend an aquamarine cast, both eerie and soothing at first glance._

_“I don’t know,” he says as he inspects their surroundings. “I’ve only been here once before, but I don’t remember this place.”_

_“I…” An earthen memory takes fuzzy shape in the back of her mind. “…might know where we are. Maybe.”_

_“Well, wherever we are, I’m just glad that worked.”_

_“What?”_

_“I tried to get you out of there as quickly as possible—to avoid the pain.”_

_Her eyes water in an instant. “You mean there was more that I missed?”_

_His face darkens at the implication. “I would never wish that on you. On anyone.” His right hand moves to cup her cheek, to brush away the tear streak there. “I’m sorry you had to see that. To feel it.”_

_She scoots closer to him, her hand on his. “What about you? I still have to heal it.”_

_“I’m fine.” Stubborn bastard. Obviously, that hasn’t changed with his transformation._

_“But you’re not.” Her hand pulls his away from her face and squeezes. “I saw your chi pathways.” She points to his scar. “It’s a knotted mess up there. I have to clear it.”_

_“No.” He stares her down, her hand held between his own. “You don’t. You couldn’t bear it.”_

_“Don’t you think I should be making that decision? What I can and can’t handle?”_

_“Well yes, but—"_

_Her hand wrenches free of his. Her eyes meet his with accusation. “You were stopping me before, weren’t you? That tie to your root. That’s why I couldn’t see it.”_

_“It’s not something I like to relive.” He retreats from her, curling in on himself. “Least of all through you,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper._

_“But I want to, though. I want to understand.”_

_His head turns slowly back to her. Confusion and disbelief flit across his features, and he bites his lip as if he’s considering something._

_“Okay. But you have to swear”—a point in her direction punctuates the statement—“swear to me that you’ll stop if it gets to be too much.”_

_“I promise.”_

_“I mean it.” His gaze is deadly serious._

_“Zuko.” Her voice is deliberate and calm, eyes wide and sincere. “I swear it.”_

_He takes a seat before her within a hair’s breadth and gives a subtle nod of assent. His eyes study her face, bring a different kindling to her cheeks. Her vial sets their faces alight from below. She busies herself with unclasping it from her throat._

_“This is water from the Spirit Oasis in the North Pole. It has special properties, so I’ve been…” She cradles the crystal in her hand before meeting his gaze once again. “…saving it for something important.”_

_His eyes trail up from her lips to meet hers. They close as his head bows in submission._

_Her hands quake a bit as she pours out the precious liquid. As in reality, she meets resistance once it's applied to his face. She towers over him on her knees for better traction. But in the realm of spirit, energy flows much more easily. With intense focus, she forces the water between the folds of his scar tissue, his layers of skin, down until it disappears and melds with his chi._ _There. She finds the knotted mass behind his eye. The subtle motions of her fingers prod and pull at the coil of tangled energy. Until the deep itch begins behind her left cheek._

_A strand loosens from her grasp, and she refocuses to find it. The deep itch turns to ache, turns to sting, and it spreads along her nerves lighting a flame in reverse. Her hands struggle to maintain her grip on his energetic threads, clearing pathways only for another to close off again. Her eyes water as the burning grows, teeth clenched, and breathing heavy but controlled._

_“Katara?” Zuko’s concerned prodding barely registers over the urge to rip out her own eye. A sob escapes her, and one hand braces his shoulder. His find her waist on instinct. “Katara, you need to stop.”_

_Her right hand strains to stop the shaking, while the other digs into his flesh. “No.” A flick of a finger bends her tears into his face, and she uses that too._

_He reaches up slowly to grab her wrist in warning. “Katara. Please, stop.”_

_“No, I’m almost done!” That’s it, just one more coil to unwind…_

_She pushes through with one last cry as her vision goes white._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get this out sooner. It just didn’t come as easily as the last chapter, so I had to massage it.
> 
> As always, lemme know your thoughts. I love nothing more than reading your interpretations ☺️💕


	4. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spirit water's effects are revealed. Katara lashes out in anger, and Zuko has something to conceal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is lovelies! Thank you so much for your patience 💕
> 
> This is by far the hardest chapter I’ve ever written (including what I have so far of my upcoming Big Bang fic). Turns out, heart-to-heart scenes are my kryptonite, but they take me the longest to write—and this one has like five of ‘em.  
>   
> Maybe you respond in comments? Tell me which parts you really like cause I work so hard for you? 🥺  
>   
> TW: Semi-graphic description of a corpse, allusions to past domestic violence.

_We find the fourth chakra in the heart. It deals with love and is blocked by grief. In your mind’s eye, lay all your grief out in front of you, every loss that you have suffered. Take a few moments to sit with that grief and embrace it without judgment._

_As healers, it is in our nature to hold space for others. Whyever not for ourselves? Perhaps because such vulnerability requires us to peer, unflinching, into our souls’ deepest truths. After all, the heart doesn’t lie. And where there is grief, there is surely love. For love is a form of energy. It swirls all around us, neither created nor destroyed, but reborn in the form of new love._

_Now, imagine that love already inside of you, dispelling your grief in the form of tears. The truth is, it’s always been there, hasn’t it? Filled you right up to the brim, bursting with the need for release, to draw from that deep well inside of you. Why waste it when healing, itself, is an act of love?_

_Just take care to turn that healing inwards on occasion, that your wells may never run dry._

* * *

The invigorating scent of steamed ginger rouses her hours later. Her hesitant eyes open to the midday sun piercing through the open window at the head of her tatami mat. She cringes despite her best efforts and shields her face.

“I’m happy to see you finally awake.”

Once her vision adjusts, she finds the Dragon of the West sitting cross-legged beside her supine form. He pours out two fresh cups from his teapot.

“You certainly gave me a fright, Master Katara.”

“What happened?” An invisible ice-pick gouges behind her left eye. She braces her head, slow to rise as the room spins.

“I ran in as soon as I heard you screaming,” he says and hands her a hot cup. “You were passed out and covered in water beside my nephew.”

She glances to her right to check in on her patient. It’s hard to tell if there’s any change there: he’s curled up, scar side buried in his pillow. His arms, however, reach out for her. A small _slurp_ draws her attention back to her elderly companion.

“I tried to make you as comfortable as possible, but you convulsed in your sleep and whimpered in pain. Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“I’m…” Fractured memories of her unconscious state flash behind her eyelids as she imbibes. Notes of chamomile and ginger soothe her roiling stomach. “…not quite sure, but this”—she gestures with her cup—“is the only thing keeping my congee down.”

Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. But no amount of pressure on her eyeballs will relieve the stabbing on the left side. Her hand searches for her waterskin only to find it dry.

“And my head is _killing_ me. You wouldn’t happen to have any willow bark, would you? That’s what my Gran-Gran always uses.”

“Your grandmother is wise to do so. I believe I have some in the cabinet.”

He retrieves his teapot and stands with more agility than she would expect for a portly man of his age. Her throbbing head merely nods in thanks as she hands him her empty waterskin.

He acknowledges her wordless request with a soft _of course_ and leaves through the sliding door. She’s unsteady getting to her feet, squints at the open window, and stumbles toward it. She leans, weight against the sill and one hand reaching for the screen when she turns and stares.

Lying there, in the middle of the room, is an almost unmarked prince.

* * *

_“Katara!”_

_His eyes fly open, healing water be damned. She collapses, unconscious, into his arms. He thumbs around her throat and sighs when he finds a pulse._

_“You stupid, stubborn waterbender.” He shifts her more comfortably on his lap and sweeps her hair out from under her head. Absentminded fingers comb through her hair._

_It’s strange that she appears to him this way when he’s never seen her without the braid. There must be some significance to it he’ll need to ask about. Viridian shades dance across her ashen face, reflected off her mother’s necklace and the walls of the cave._

_The back of his hand tests her brow, her cheeks. Only the left is hot to the touch. His right soothes it, attempts to draw away some of the heat into his own inner fire. She sighs in relief, her cool breath tickling his wrist. He does the same for her hands and gives them a small squeeze once he’s finished._

_Only then does he notice the extra sight in his left eye. He blinks several times to be sure, but his surroundings shift too quickly to confirm it. The cave’s eerie green cast remains with the scene change._

_Water drips, drips, drips all around him—above, below, on all sides. It’s a place he’s never seen, but the structure is unmistakable. Lake Laogai, the Dai Li, the Avatar’s bison._

_Except his—her—hands are cast in their distinctive healing glow over the fallen form of…_

_Jet?_

_“You guys go and find Appa,” says the smallest of his companions. “We’ll take care of Jet.”_

_“We’re not going to leave you.” Her conviction, her grief, tears through his heart as she speaks._

_The quiet one breaks his long vow of silence. “There’s no time. Just go. We’ll take care of him. He’s our leader.”_

_“Don’t worry, Katara. I’ll be fine.” Jet offers her a weak smile, his feigned calm admirable, but it’s no use. She sees right through him._

_A quiet Sokka helps her to her feet as she offers little resistance, head somewhere back home. He takes her hand and leads her with gentle firmness to the exit. The earthbender and the Avatar lag behind them._

_Her heart cracks open as the blind girl whispers._

_“He’s lying.”_

* * *

_“I’ll be fine.”_

_The words are squid ink on her tongue, vacuous and just as transparent. Gran-Gran’s keen eyes miss nothing, though she says not a word as her father and brother pile rocks on her mother’s charred body._

_It’s still winter, and the ground is a solid lockbox under permafrost. No waterbenders remain to melt it—none but her, and she’s the key to nothing save her mother’s end._

_“I’ll be fine,” she says again after the spring thaw._

_Her father and Bato are quick to unearth an iluvik, but the odor of putrefaction is faster. They uncover her mother’s fetid corpse, and a woven scarf masks her nose in vain._

_She hadn’t returned since the stones were first placed. Smaller ones have clearly been moved, with only enough space for a lemming to crawl through. Her father tries to block her view, but it’s too late. How could she miss the tiny bite marks on her mother’s face? Her missing ears, nose, lips? The gnawed flesh of her fingertips?_

_She has nightmares for six months afterward and tells no one. Not even when Qallupilluit bursts out of the ground, snatches her up, and stuffs her in an amauti. A strange dream, indeed, for a water entity._

_“I’ll be fine,” she says to her father the next summer as his ships prepare to depart. And it couldn’t be further from the truth._

_Couldn’t be any further than she is right now from the village. She stopped running an hour ago, heart beating out of her chest with the need to get away from everyone including herself. Without the shortcut across the ice floes, she’s a solid trek over the hills the long way around, and there’s not another living soul in sight. The dead, however, lie ahead._

_Snowmelt skitters across polished stones in the streambed at the edge of the burial site. She skips across the narrowest part as it flows out to sea. Feathery cotton grass billows beneath her hand, blankets the entirety of the sacred ground. If she laid down, would she be born away on a cloud? Weightless and carefree?_

_A lone kittiwake flies across the sky to join its family. The caterwauling of chicks and adults from the nearby cliffsides welcomes the newcomer back home. A vertical sea of black and white plumage ripples in the midday sun._

_“We missed you,” they seem to say, “for you have been gone for so long. You must be so tired. Come, lay your burdens at the door.”_

_She can only lay her burdens at the foot of her mother’s grave, marked by a single flat stone. Her knees collapse before the carved message, spelled out in her people’s geometric syllabics: Kya, daughter of Akna, mother of Sokka and Katara, died 94 A.G. And at its head, a small cairn of carefully stacked smooth stones. Blood-orange lichen bursts forth between the cracks of the inuksuk, tiny fingers of flame clawing, consuming her mother even in death._

_Is there nothing left of her people untainted by the touch of Agni’s nation? That soldier might as well have burned her for his trouble. At least her scars would be easier to explain. Hot tears blur her vision so she can no longer read the words on her mother’s footstone. Words she can only read because of Gran-Gran’s insistent teachings._

_“There’s five-flavor soup waiting for you when you’re ready to come back home.”_

_Her braid whips over her shoulder. Never would she have described her grandmother as feeble. But to see the small, sage woman set against the vast southern landscape, leaning on her cane with an over-large basket on one arm, it’s the only fitting word._

_  
_ _“Gran-Gran, you shouldn’t be out so far from the village.” She wipes away the tearstains with the back of her hands._

_“Neither should you.”_

_“But what if you fall?”_

_“And you haven’t already?” Her question is not unkind. She points to the footstone with the end of her cane._

_“I was just clearing off mom’s iluvik.” A few swipes of the stone’s surface make her look busy, though she’s all too aware of her grandmother’s appraising stare._

_“And this lichen is impossible to keep off the inuksuk.” Irritated, she gestures to the problem in question and stands, wiping her hands. “Here, let me help you back home.”_

_“No, kuluuk.” Kanna stops her with soft but firm pats on the proffered arm. “I don’t think I am ready to return just yet.” She makes for a flat-topped boulder at the edge of the stream. “At my age, it’s important that I know my limits, and when I need rest.”_

_“Besides,” she continues, groaning with effort as she takes a seat. “I haven’t gotten what I came for yet. And what good are these old bones anyway”—a slap of her knee emphasizes the point—"if they can’t persuade my granddaughter to gather some willow for me?”_

_“Of course,” Katara says and accepts the basket for gathering. “Are your joints bothering you again? I can brew some tea for you when we get back.”_

_“No, not any more than usual.” Her grandmother’s cane directs her to a patch just downstream._

_She makes her way toward it, calling over her shoulder in between careful steps. “Did Sokka strain his groin leg-wrestling again? I swear to La, if I have to spend another night replacing his poultice and bandages—”_

_Kanna merely chuckles from her perch on the boulder. “As far as I am aware, there have been no further wrestling-related injuries. And besides, who would he wrestle with? All the boys his age left with your father.”_

_A scoff. “He’d manage it somehow, even by himself.”_

_She kneels down in a bed of shiny green leaves. Red and yellow catkins carpet the raised expanse of ground. Their downy soft plumes tickle her palms. Between her reverent fingertips, they transform into tiny versions of her father’s braids._

_“We did need more suputit for the qulliq,” she says, more to herself than anything. “I checked our stocks yesterday.”_

_“Those flowers look a little young, but they’ll do.”_

_She hears herself respond with a soft okay, reluctant hands already doing the work of harvesting._

_“And be sure to gather some of the roots. We’ll need those too.”_

_A quick glance back to her grandmother has her eyebrows drawing together. “Did your fish basket break again?”_

_A knowing smile. “No, the leather strap and reinforced attachment points you added last time have worked like a charm.”_

_She shrugs and digs out the shallow, stubborn roots of the tiny plant. The digging’s not hard, but less than a few inches beneath the ground is an intricate network of interwoven roots. Pull a strand here and it moves a section over there. Her fingers track the many radiating pathways. A defeated sigh escapes her as she rips them out—root, shoot, and bloom. Her impatience costs her as she cuts her hand in the process._

_“Aaq, anaq!” The thin red line on her palm stings like sea jelly venom._

_“Are you alright, nagligaak?”_

_“Yes, I’m fine!” Her good hand tears off leaves in haste and stuffs them into her mouth to chew. With the resulting paste, she seals off the cut to stop the blood flow. With all traces of the injury cleaned away apart from the spit poultice, she makes her way back with a full basket._

_“Is this enough, Gran-Gran?”_

_Her grandmother looks over the yield and rewards her with a smile. “That’s perfect,” she says and pats a spot on the boulder for Katara to join her._

_From the basket, Kanna plucks a small shoot and hands it to her. “Strip the bark off this, will you? And here”—she tears off a handful of leaves and wads them in Katara’s hand—“while you’re doing that, eat these. They’ll keep you regular.”_

_Rather than refuse an elder, the waterbender stuffs the wad of greenery between her teeth. It’s a mouthful; but this time, she savors the plant’s crisp and pleasant sweetness._

_“Have you ever marveled at the many uses of such a tiny plant?”_

_Her grandmother misses the shake of her head. Semi-clouded eyes focus on aged, knobby fingers instead._

_“This plant feeds us, heals us. It bears the burdens we can’t carry for ourselves. It warms us in the fire, so that by the time we’re through, nothing left of it remains.”_

_They unwind the plants’ tangled limbs with a practiced swiftness that belies their wrinkled appearance. Katara turns her attention to the shoot in-hand and flays the rough bark, deposits the strips back into the basket for later._

_“It gives so much in return for so little, it’s a wonder that it survives at all.”_

_Once she’s finished, Katara holds up the inner layers of the shoot. “What did you want with this?”_

_“For you to eat that too.”_

_“Why?”_

_The question is small, polite even. It’s the most defiance she’s shown her aana since she was a little girl. Her grandmother pauses the work to look her in the eye. What she doesn’t expect to find is the sadness that lies therein._

_“Someone has to remind you to take care of yourself.”_

_“I can do that myself.” She turns away from that unbearable expression and bites off the end of the shoot to prove it’s true. “I’ve taken care of everyone else just fine since Mom died.”_

_Kanna takes her free hand into her own with a squeeze. “I know. And you shouldn’t have to.”_

_She swallows down more than just a bit of food. “Yes, I do.” Her grandmother won’t believe her without eye contact, so she makes it. “Who else is going to? Sokka’s too busy preparing for a raid, maintaining our weapons and hunting stocks, training the little ones who can barely hold a spear.”_

_“And what am I, seal liver?”_

_“Of course not! But what about the days when your hands”—hers hold them up—“shake so bad you can’t thread a needle? Do you really think Sokka’s going to stoop to learning ‘women’s work’ just to help me?”_

_“Have you ever asked? Who do you think is keeping your soup warm until you return?”_

_“I—” The brush of her cheek from a rough, gentle hand cuts her off._

_“We’re worried about you, Katara.” Her own name on her grandmother’s lips brings her mind to a halt. “This past year, you’ve been so crushed under the weight of our grief, there’s no room for your own.”_

_The keen eyes trained on her are far too much. Hers find solace in the naked shoot in her lap. Defensive fingers curl around it as Kanna pulls her into a side embrace._

_“You have made yourself so small, uummatigaak, and you have been so strong through all of it.”_

_“But I have to be.” Her response comes out as scarce more than a whisper. Her thumbnail carves deep grooves into the soft innards of the shoot._

_“Why?”_

_She leans in for support. “Because if I don’t, we’ll fall apart.”_

_A gentle kiss on her forehead. “No.” Her grandmother’s hand smooths the back of her hair and slinks down the length of her braid. “We won’t.” Fingers that aren’t her mother’s play with the tufted end of her tail._

_“But I will. I was barely holding on before Dad left, and now, I don’t know what to do.”_

_“You grieve, nagliik. You grieve.” Wizened, watery eyes peer down at her. It’s only then she notices the wetness of her own cheeks._

_“But why did he have to leave us? Why did he have to leave me?”_

_“Because, like the winter ice floes, your father learned the only way forward is through. And so must you.”_

_The shoot crumples to mush in her clenched fist. Assorted juices ooze out between her fingers and dribble down her wrist. She pulls away, back-straight as the mast of her father’s ship._

_“But Mom’s already gone! Doesn’t he know how much we need him? How much I need him? How could he think that we’ll all be—?”_

_Fine._

_The word rings clear in her subconscious like a tiny bell, at once near and very far away. The healing glow fades from her hands in her distracted state._

_“Come on, Katara.”_

_Sokka nudges her to her feet, leads her through labyrinthine passageways into the light of day. It burns. Somehow, she makes it onto Appa’s back and clings on as best she can. Sokka’s arms encircle her form, pinning her to the bison’s fur._

_It’s some time before she finds her voice again. “I took an oath, Sokka. I should’ve helped him.”_

_The wind whips across her face, nearly freezes her cheeks with tearstains. All is muffled by the gale save the thrashing of Sokka’s tunic. She ran out of whale oil soap months ago, and it stopped smelling of seal fat long before that. But if she closes her eyes, she can almost conjure the scent of her father’s sealskin anorak._

_Several minutes pass. And just when it seems like he never heard her over the strong gusts, he says, “There’s nothing you could have done, najaak.”_

_“Yes, I could! If I’d gotten to him sooner, I could’ve—” A sob hitches in her throat. “Why am I never fast enough?”_

_Her brother gazes down at her with pity, and a part of her hates him for it. “Katara, you can’t take it upon yourself like that.”_

_She’d act on it, but the effort to hold on uses up all her strength, so she settles for a sigh. “I’m just so tired of losing people.”_

_“Don’t you think I am too?”_

_“Sokka, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”_

_“It’s okay, alright? I get it. It’s all I could think about after the North Pole. I mean…” The cage of his arms around her tenses. If they weren’t on Appa, he would’ve punched something by now. “La-dammit! What good am I as a warrior if I can’t protect the people I care about?”_

_She huffs. “What good am I as a healer if I can’t heal them?”_

_“I don’t know. Just…” A shrug. “Let me know when you figure it out, okay? Now come here and keep me warm.”_

_He hunkers down with her into Appa’s fur, and for a second, she’s home. The faint glow of the qulliq. The harsh polar winds howling outside, no match for thick walls of ice. Piles of soft furs tickle her nose, her cheek. And just as she did then, she lets him pretend it’s only warmth he seeks._

_The wind dies down to nothing as she closes her eyes. Slowly, she becomes aware of strong arms holding her upright. Her own loop around broad shoulders._

_She nuzzles her face into the warm crook of a neck to breathe in deeper his scent: jasmine, amber, and musk. There’s an instant release as her body lets go. Some deeply held and unknown weight vanishes from her shoulders. How long has she been carrying that around?_

_For years, she thinks, as it spills over her cheeks, the brine of squid ink still stuck in her teeth._

_“I think he loved her.”_

_“Who?” comes the gentle rasp._

_“Yue. The Northern Princess.”_

_“What happened?”_

_“She…” A shrug. “…turned into the moon. And…”_

_Silence._

_“I think she loved him too.”_

* * *

_She still does._

_Those three words nearly shatter the crystalline stillness of their meeting cave. The truth of them lodges in his gut like a stone. Scattered pieces of conversation with the spirit reassemble with newfound weight and impress the realization upon him._

_She spoke as if from experience. The power to choose. If you care for her, you will not take it from her._

_The spirit called Yue made a choice. And Sokka..._

_Sokka let her go._

_Bile rises up his throat; he swallows that down with his pride—he doesn’t deserve it. Not after he took advantage of a generous heart and allowed her to use that spirits-blessed water on his face, only for her to suffer his fate. Some blessing, alright. He might as well have burned her by his own hand, with less honor than a tribesman._

_The silence stretches on for too long. Her weight shifts away from him, and his arms accommodate to hold her upright. A sharp intake of breath has him searching her face for signs of distress._

_“It worked.”_

_Her eyes are wide and focused on his scar. He obscures her view out of habit._

_“May I?” A tentative hand caresses the side of his jaw, an invitation within a question._

_He relents. Her eyes sparkle like sapphires against a backdrop of muted jade._

_“Would you like to see?” Her smile is no less radiant._

_Does he dare hope inside a dream? Believe in some cruel spirit vision with no basis in reality? But she peers up at him with so much hope. And after all she’s been through, he’d rather die than take it from her._

_He gives a subtle nod of assent and watches as she pulls out her waterskin from somewhere. From it, she dispenses some water over her flat palm. It solidifies on contact into a perfect ice mirror._

_A huff. “I’ve been trying to nail that trick for months, and it works my first try here? Figures.” She takes his hand in hers and transfers the mirror, freezing it to his palm. “There. Just be careful not to melt it too much.”_

_He chances a hesitant glance at the reflective surface and gapes in amazement and mounting horror. Where once was scar tissue is now a faint pink stain on otherwise unblemished skin. But besides that, the features are unmistakable: the cut of his brow, the severe angle of his cheekbones, the tense set of his jaw. He should’ve known better than to trust in a spirit’s promise._

_Heat surges through his palm. “Why did you show me this?” he snaps as the image slips through his fingers._

_Unintentional sparks flare from his nose and mouth as ash settles on his tongue. She flinches from his lap with that same expression his mother used to have._

_“I’m sorry, I thought—”_

_He tears himself away so as not to lay a hand on her and presents his back for good measure. “I don’t need you to heal me anymore. You need to leave.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I don’t want to be him!”_

_His voice—so much like his—echoes through the inner contours of the cave and makes him wince. Until there is only silence, and he’s alone once again. Or so he thinks. Dirt-scraping alerts him to her presence as she approaches._

_“Zuko.” The tentative pitch of her voice stills him. He dares not breathe as she places a hand on his shoulder. “You could never be like him.”_

_He turns enough to gauge her certainty. “How can you be so sure?”_

_“Because…” She kneels before him, perched on the back of her legs. Her limp hands intertwine in her lap, and she stares at them until she finds the words. “For so long now, whenever I imagined the face of the enemy, it was your face.”_

_Her eyes meet his with nothing but sadness. His hand seeks out the familiar grooves of his scar but finds them new and effaced. Only the waterbender’s charade could leave him yearning for his grotesque visage. If he let her, would she stop at nothing to remake him in his father’s image?_

_“I see. And in fixing my face, you’ve eliminated your enemy.”_

_The sapphire glint of her eyes hardens to ice. “You know damn well that’s not what I meant.”_

_“So, spit it out, then.”_

_“With what I know now?” Her eyes drift off in thought as she makes herself more comfortable and crosses her legs, chin resting on her upturned palm. “You were never my enemy, only the face of what the enemy’s capable of.”_

_She doesn’t seem to notice the way her fingers cling to her mother’s necklace._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Zuko, my people have sent criminals out onto the ice in exile for far less than what your father did to you.”_

_“But I spoke out of turn—”_

_“I don’t care what you did. It doesn’t matter.”_

_“Oh really? And how would a southern chieftain handle a challenge to his authority?”_

_“My father could never do that to me. My father just—”_

_“Leaves.” The tactless thought finishes itself with ease. He could kick himself._

_Her eyes widen in shock, her brows knitted together. “You saw that?”_

_His voice softens with a tenor of sincerity, and his hand reaches out for hers of its own accord. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”_

_Hers doesn’t immediately recoil from his touch, and he offers a small squeeze before he loses his nerve._

_“No, no it’s okay.” She shrugs. “I guess—”_

_“That’s something we have in common?”_

_The small smile she affords him is the first to feel earned._

* * *

Thirteen. He was irreversibly scarred by his own father’s hand at thirteen. Even in her most terrifying nightmares, the most gruesome flashbacks of her mother’s murder, she never could have imagined such cruelty. In that way, she is lucky: to have known the warmth of her mother’s amauti, the safety of her father’s arms.

She sits beside his sleeping form. He’s surprisingly still, more contented dreaming than she’s ever seen him. Her fingers brush the fringe out of his eyes, and he nuzzles his faded scar into her palm. Its raised edges have receded a bit beneath the brush of her thumb, its wrinkled texture polished to near-smooth. Without the semi-healed scar, it’d be easy to pretend he’d never known pain.

What if she had succeeded hours ago and woken to his unmarred face? How much would she have actually erased? Yugoda used to say that the body keeps the score, and she’d never understood what that meant before now. In her mind’s eye, she tries to imagine a boy without scars, both seen and unseen. But that boy is dead, if he ever existed at all. A fissure inside her chest erupts with something akin to loss.

The screen door slides open behind her and stirs her patient enough to roll over and expose his scar. Iroh’s jovial voice vexes her out of her musings. He bears a fresh teapot on a large tray with her waterskin and porcelain cup ware, setting them down on the other side of his nephew.

“Now, I’m not sure what kind of willow you have in the south,” Iroh begins, taking a careful seat across from her and handing her the waterskin over his unconscious nephew, “but Ba Sing Se is home to a particularly potent variety that should clear your headache right up.”

She thanks him as he pours her a cup to be polite but is otherwise silent as she sips her tea. The willow bark is bracing and nearly overpowers the ginger and chamomile. Good. She’ll need something strong for this.

“I dare say that my friend Pakku undersold your talents when last he wrote,” Iroh says, looking over his nephew’s face. “It appears that you have made some progress.”

Pain still thrums behind her left eye, though it’s dulled in the half-hour since his departure, and the willow bark should take quick effect. The professional demeanor instilled in her from Yagoda’s instruction takes over and pushes it aside.

“Yes.” She clears her throat and places her cup and saucer on the floor. “You can see the pigmentation’s faded, so that’s a good sign.” Her fingertips trace lightly over the contours of the scar. “The collagen’s filled in, smoothing out the scar tissue. It’s hard to tell with him asleep, but he may regain motion in his left eye. I’m not sure yet how that would affect his field of vision.”

Iroh leans over and sweeps aside some of his nephew’s hair to reveal a more filled-out earlobe. “Or his hearing. He never would admit it, but he did suffer some hearing loss on that side.”

“I see.” A swallow. “But there’s still more work to be done beneath the surface.” With her hand gloved, she diverts water into his scar. “I’ve removed the through-line to his stomach, which was my biggest concern. Unfortunately, that obscured some more minor blocks to his other chakras.”

With her finger, she draws an invisible line from his scar to his heart, his throat, his crown. “The tie to his throat seems to be the largest of these, but I’ll still have to clear them in order, so I’ll begin with the heart.”

“Will that be possible without your spirit water?”

“I think so.” Careful hands withdraw the probing liquid and stream it back into her waterskin. “These are relatively minor, and I’ve been able to heal his physical scar enough that they shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

“And should we expect to see any change in its appearance as you continue?”

Her eyes stray from her patient to meet those of the man across from her—“I don’t have a way to know just yet, but”—and land on a pair of familiar portraits hung on the wall behind him.

“Yes?”

The question snaps her back to the present, and she stammers out a hasty reply.

“I-I will do my best.”

“Thank you, Katara.” His beaming smile is so grateful, she dismisses the drop of her title.

“Of course.” She grants him a small smile in return.

Satisfied, he examines the small changes of the prince’s face, eyes still closed in restful repose. Hers drift back to the portraits over the old man’s shoulder, mounted side-by-side. It’s a wonder she hadn’t noticed them before, given the sparse decor of the entire apartment. Perhaps, she’s a more attentive healer than she thought.

Yagoda’s voice drifts through her mind, with that knowing look in her eye. _You have a natural gift, Katara, apart from your waterbending. I’d be honored if you returned to my healing hut for another lesson sometime._ Master Pakku was encouraging in his own way, but it was never quite the same as her healing instructor. No, Yagoda was more subtle, always encouraging the development of her students’ keen insight. _Make sure you’ve got the whole picture_ , she said, _even the smallest detail could yield a breakthrough._

She does so now with the portraits. To the right, the smiling image of Zuko’s mother with her son’s honey-golden eyes. To the left, the perfect picture of a royal family: Ozai, the regal patriarch presiding over the entire frame from the background; in front of him, his beautiful, seated wife, clutching a baby Azula to her chest; and to her left, Zuko at age two or three, with a small cowlick that hangs, defiant, from the rest of his tiny topknot.

It’s only upon a second look that she fully grasps the subtext. Ozai’s talon-like grip on his wife’s shoulder. The long, elegant robes that obscure her form from collarbone to wrist. The high neckline of her close-up with a smudged _something_ peeking out along her throat. The faint layer of fear in her gaze. Her arm around Zuko’s shoulders as if to shield him with her own body.

And she failed him. As everyone in his life had failed him. Including the man in front of her. The man in question speaks up happily and leans back, reaching for another cup.

“You have already done far more for my nephew than I could have ever hoped.”

Another warm smile with kind eyes she shouldn’t despise. But like always, she’s too late, and the words slip from her tongue before she can bite them away.

“Far more than you.”

“I beg your pardon?” The general stares up at her, dumbfounded, teacup halfway to his lips.

A part of her cringes at the disrespect. But the louder voice inside couldn’t care less, not right now. Not after what she witnessed.

“You were there, weren’t you?” The older man flinches beneath her piercing glare. “You had to have been. The whole court was there that day. You saw it, and that’s why you cautioned me against it.”

The pulse pounds louder behind her left cheek. A frigid chill shrouds the room, even as her whole body burns hot as a furnace.

He clears his throat and sets the cup down on the saucer with a soft _tink._ “Master Katara, you must understand—"

“He was thirteen. He was a _child_.”

“He was a _prince_ —”

Her parents hadn’t told her much about the world’s power structures, but in this instance, they told her enough.

“And you, the principal heir to the throne,” she sneers.

“In the Fire Nation, the will of the Fire Lord is _law_.”

“I don’t care!”

Iroh startles back from her and eyes his teapot with caution. In the quiet that follows, a tell-tale crackling emanates from inside. She musters her control enough to banish the cold and melt the contents of the pot.

Her lowered voice yields no less deadly venom. “And your people have the _nerve_ to call mine barbaric? With all due respect, General, any law that permits a father” _—_ she points to the monster on the wall behind him _—_ “to _burn his own son_ is an affront to justice.”

“On that, we agree.”

“Then why didn’t you _do_ anything? Why didn’t _anyone_ do anything?”

“Perhaps because we told ourselves there was nothing that could be done anyway. Or maybe there was an element of fear. But I looked away, and to this day, that is my greatest shame.”

The memory of the Agni Kai sears through her mind, tears through the boundaries that separate her life from her patient’s. It’s then she notices he’s trembling. Fever chills wrack his body for the first time that day, and on instinct, she palms water into his overheated scalp. Iroh observes her with a curious expression.

She peers up at him once her patient’s stable and breathes, “How could you abandon him like that?”

“That was _never_ my intention.” A long sigh escapes the exhausted general, now looking much older than his years.

“I imagined or deluded myself—the distinction matters not—that my brother would use the event to display his magnanimity, to bolster his image to a war-weary populace. After all, he’d always been concerned with appearances in that way.”

“But I was wrong.” A haunted look passes over his eyes and tempers until it could forge iron. “And I will never make that mistake again.”

“I hope so.” Hers flit to her unconscious patient for little more than a second. “For his sake.”

“It wasn’t until after that I learned the extent of what my brother was capable of.”

The stone of her mother’s necklace is ice between her fingertips.

“My family has always known what yours is capable of.” 

“And for that, I am deeply sorry.”

She looks away and monitors her sleeping patient in silence. Iroh is stiff as he stands. He bends over in pain to retrieve the tray. Light footsteps pause at the open doorway.

“My only hope is that you will not hold his father’s line against him when he wakes. By Agni’s grace, he is far more his mother’s son.” 

“I know,” comes her small reply.

His only answer is the soft _click_ of the screen door latch behind her. In front, the portraits of a broken family remain.

“And none of you deserve him.”

* * *

_A warm bubble settles around them once their tempers disperse. Their knees touch as they sit across from each other, cross-legged. He speaks in low, hushed tones so as not to disturb their shared solace._

_“I’m sorry I snapped at you before.”_

_“It doesn’t matter.” Her tone is not dismissive, only sincere._

_It’s far too soft for an illusion, her hand in his. His thumb traces the inner lines of her palm, marvels at the power they hold to handle all of his broken pieces._

_“Is it always like this? When you heal someone?”_

_Her eyes chart its course up the base of her own thumb, her mind elsewhere._

_“It’s often something like this.”_

_A bond, unlike that seen for centuries. What in Agni’s hell could the spirit have meant? Surely, there’d be more to it than a waterbender’s healing. After all, he’s never been healed this way before, but that hardly signified a gateway to some spiritual bond she’d abhor._

_“But no.” Her eyes search his for answers he doesn’t have. “This isn’t usual. It’s different.” She pinches her lips between her teeth as if she’s said too much._

_“How so?” His uncle said to never doubt the spirits, but he has to know—if only for her sake._

_“Honestly?” A shrug. “I often don’t get anything.” Her fingertips retrace glass-drawn paths on his palm. Does she even remember that? “Maybe a vague physical sensation here and there, but nothing concrete. And I’ve only ever seen memories once before.”_

_“When was that?”_

_She heaves a long sigh and withdraws her hands from his, leaves them oddly bare._

_“Before Jet died I…” Her eyes scour the ceiling and return to him, blinking. “Had to undo a lot of the damage to his mind. It was horrible what the Dai Li did to him.”_

_“Did you love him?”_

_He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve as he says it. His vision, however, is not so unfocused as to miss her jolt of surprise. Her fingers splay out on the ground behind her as a brace._

_“I-I-I only ask because I saw what happened”—his hand darts to the back of his neck—“beneath the lake. I’m sorry I brought it up. It’s much too soon—”_

_“No.” She leans forward again to reassure him. “No. It’s okay. I should probably talk about it anyway.”_

_“Your grandmother is very wise.”_

_“So is your uncle.”_

_That comment earns her one of his rare lopsided grins, even if it’s aimed at his legs. He pulls on the loose thread enough to tear it clean off._

_“Truth is, I’m not sure how I felt about him.” Another shrug. “And now, I guess I’ll never know.”_

_He meets her discerning gaze. For once, it’s without the urge to hide. “What was it like peeking inside his mind?”_

_“It was different from this. More like…” Her tongue swipes across her bottom lip as if the words could be found right there. “Moving pictures? I could see what happened, but I wasn’t in them. I wasn’t him. It wasn’t like—”_

_“His memories were yours.”_

_“Exactly. And I couldn’t feel his pain.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Hey.” He attempts to look away, but she grabs his hand and forces him to see her anyway. “Don’t be sorry. I chose this.”_

_She didn’t, not really, but he doesn’t tell her that. Not yet. A small smile appeases her for the moment. He tries to enjoy it, despite the question at the back of his mind._

_How long will it take her to regret it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as it kills me, I am going to have to put this project on hold for about three months as I focus on the Big Bang event. I should be able to update once that event starts posting in June.
> 
> In the meantime, thank you for sticking with me. We’ll see if any new readers join us before the next update. I just have so much in mind for this story that I know you’ll love. YOU 👏🏻 WILL 👏🏻 BE 👏🏻 FED 👏🏻  
>   
> As in the first chapter, I've included a short glossary below of Inuktitut terms as they are used here, to the best of my knowledge.
> 
> I'm not an Inuktitut speaker, but I am a _huge_ language nerd and so did my research accordingly. Please let me know if I can make any corrections! 😄
> 
> Inuktitut - English  
> Iluvik - grave  
> Amauti - baby-carrier parka  
> Inuksuk - cairn  
> Kuluuk - little one (vocative)  
> Suputit - willow flower seedheads  
> Qulliq - stone lamp  
> Aaq, anaq! - Ow, shit!  
> Nagligaak - my love (vocative)  
> Nagliik - love (vocative)  
> Aana - grandmother  
> Uummatigaak - my heart (vocative)  
> Anorak - waterproof jacket  
> Najaak - sister (vocative)


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